Gilded Tears: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 2)

by Nicole Fox

  “It showed,” Svetlana says quietly. “He set up a monthly allowance for Mama after Papa’s death. For as long as she lives, she’ll be provided for.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I thought the payments might stop after Don Stanislav died, but they didn’t,” she tells me.

  I nod. “Nor would I want them to.”

  “I know why you called me, Artem,” she blurts. “It’s not just because I’m good at what I do. It’s because you value loyalty, like your father did. You wouldn’t have called me at all if you felt you couldn’t trust me.”

  “That’s true. Budimir never valued loyalty like Stanislav did. He never attended the funerals of his men, never bothered to learn about their families, never saw that they were taken care of. It was always one-sided for him, which is why he will never last as don.”

  Svetlana nods. “This job is more dangerous than I’m used to.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I nod. “And your pay will reflect the risk.”

  “Money is not what I’m worried about,” she says. “If he finds out who I am and who I’m working for, he’ll kill me.”

  I don’t mince words. “Without a doubt.”

  I’m not going to lie to her. Trust goes both ways.

  She takes a deep breath, and that her breathing quickens as she weighs her options. I can see the conflict behind her dizzying green eyes.

  There’s a part of her that likes the danger of the assignment.

  There’s another part of her that wants to run from me and never look back.

  “You have to be sure, ‘Lana,” I tell her. “There will be no going back.”

  She bites her lip. “How long do I have to decide?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” I say succinctly.

  She nods. “Okay, I’ll have my answer to you by then.”

  She takes her beer and glugs it down with all the vigor of a truck driver. When she sets down the bottle, it’s empty.

  “What if he doesn’t like me?” she asks. “What if I’m not his type?”

  I snort. “You’re every man’s type.”

  She starts to pick at the wrapper on the beer bottle with her lacquered nails.

  “And once you’ve killed the mother fucker and taken control of the Bratva again,” she muses softly, “where does that leave me?”

  “You’ll be part of the team,” I say. “You’ll be Bratva.”

  She raises her eyebrows as if that’s the first real carrot I’ve dangled in front of her. “You’re serious?” she asks.

  “I am.”

  “Women aren’t traditionally part of the Bratva.”

  “Well then, it’s about time to dragged us into the twenty-first century, don’t you think?”

  She smiles down into her lap. Then she looks up at me, stone-faced but with a blaze in her eyes.

  “I don’t need twenty-four hours,” she says, with confidence. “I’ve made my decision.”

  “Glad to have you on board.” I stand and shake her hand across the desk.

  I walk her to the door. Before she leaves, she turns back to me and rests a friendly hand on my forearm. Her smile is soft, but it turns sad suddenly.

  “I heard about Cillian,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  My jaw clenches. “Another thing Budimir will answer for.”

  “He has a lot to answer for,” Svetlana replies. “And if I can do something to help bring him to his knees, then I will.”

  Then she’s gone.

  I watch her get into her car and drive away.

  Gaining Svetlana’s allegiance is not something I counted on, but it’s something I hoped for. She has her mother’s grace and beauty, but she has her father’s courage. She’s smart, skilled and subtle in the art of deception and seduction.

  Getting her on my team is an undeniable victory. Another piece on the board working to topple Budimir.

  I should be fucking thrilled.

  And yet…

  Why do I still feel so fucking empty inside?

  The answer is so obvious that I miss it at first. Then it hits me between the eyes and I retreat to my desk and sit down.

  “Esme,” I say, uttering her name out loud for the first time in weeks. Months, even.

  I pick up my phone and call Stefan. He’s my tracker. If I need something found, he will find it, no matter where it’s hidden.

  “Yes, boss?” he answers on the second ring.

  “Remember the license plate number I gave you a few days ago?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you locate the car?”

  “Of course, boss,” he replies. “But you told me you didn’t want to pursue that lead.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I tell him. “Send me the location where the car was found.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hang up and head out of my office. Adrik and Maxim are in the main common area with some of the other boys. I signal the two of them over and they converge around me instantly.

  “I’ll expect daily reports from both of you,” I tell him. “Mornings and nights.”

  “You going somewhere, boss?” Maxim asks in concern.

  I hesitate for a second, realizing that this is it.

  This was when I make the choice once and for all.

  “I hope you get what you want.”

  “Yeah,” I nod. “I’m going somewhere. And I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  Maxim and Adrik exchange a glance. I can see the reservation in their eyes, but I’ve made the decision now.

  And I can feel it in my gut—it’s the right fucking decision.

  “Keep me updated,” I say again. “Got it?”

  “Got it, boss,” Adrik affirms.

  Then I turn and head up to my room to pack.

  “I hope you get what you want.”

  What I want means nothing without Esme.

  Without my child.

  And it’s about fucking time I get them back.

  28

  Artem

  ONE WEEK LATER—A SMALL TOWN NEAR TIJUANA, MEXICO

  The trail’s going cold.

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, as I head into some random shitty diner to get some food.

  I’m starving. I’m so obsessed with finding Esme that everything comes second. Everything else feels like a fucking afterthought.

  Food. Sleep. Shelter.

  I don’t give a damn about any of it.

  I just want what I’m hunting for.

  My wife. My child. My future.

  But I’ve been hunting for Esme for a week now, and my frustration keeps growing relentlessly.

  I slump down at the breakfast counter. A middle-aged waitress materializes in front of me.

  “Can I get you something, señor?”

  “Food.”

  “Uh… anything in particular?” she asks sarcastically. “Menu’s right there. You do know how a restaurant works, sí?”

  I fix her with a cold glare. “I don’t give a shit. Whatever’s good. And coffee. Strong.”

  Then I plop my head down against the back of my hands.

  Just then, an older man with grey whiskers takes the stool beside me.

  “Hey, Francesca,” he greets the waitress.

  “The usual?” she asks him.

  “Yes, ma’am. Heart attack on a plate. No better way to start the day, am I right?”

  He’s got a whimsical Southern drawl that’s way out of place down here outside of Tijuana, Mexico.

  I hear her chuckle, but I’m rolling my eyes. Fuck, he’s the chatty type.

  I wouldn’t have stopped here if I had the choice. But I haven’t slept in almost three days and I was starting to hallucinate on the drive from the next town over. I had to pull over somewhere or crash.

  Right now, I think I’d choose crashing over a conversation with the jovial gent on the stool to my right.

  “You doing all right there, son?” he asks. The man goes so far as to pat me on th
e back reassuringly. “Not lookin’ so hot, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

  I just grunt.

  “You a local or you passing through?” he asks. “’Course, that’s a bit of a loaded question, ‘cause this here is a small town and I myself am a local, but you are unfamiliar to me. So I’m guessing you’re just passing through.”

  I peel myself upright with a weary sigh. Francesca sets a plate of bacon, tortillas, and scrambled eggs in front of me, then slides a full mug of extremely black coffee along with it.

  I take a sip of the coffee first. Fuck, that’s good. The caffeine hits my system and brings me back to life, at least a little bit.

  I realize I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Colonel Sanders here isn’t an irritant.

  He’s a potential source of information.

  I give him a friendly nod. “Just passing through. Looking for someone, actually.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I pull out the picture of Esme I’ve been carrying around in my pocket and show it to him.

  “Have you seen this girl?”

  He frowns, but he doesn’t look like he doesn’t recognize her. “Hmm. Sure looks a lot like Emily.”

  “Emily?” I’m wondering if Esme had the forethought to use an alias.

  “This waitress who worked in the diner across the street,” he tells me. “Pretty young thing. Disappeared without a trace after something went down with a customer.”

  “Do you remember anything else about her?” I demand. “Anything at all?” My voice is growing louder and other customers are looking over in mild alarm.

  “She was pregnant,” he says, all nonchalant.

  I shove off the stool immediately. The Southern man flinches away from me as though I’d just tried to take a punch at him.

  “Which diner?” I ask. “What’s the name of the fucking diner?”

  He recoils in fear. “That one over there,” he says with a point out the window. “La Paloma.”

  I throw a fistful of crumpled pesos on the counter and charge out the door without another word.

  La Paloma is hopping when I walk in. Almost every table is full. I look around as a young waitress hustles past me carrying a tray that’s far too big for her.

  I head to the counter but there’s no one behind it. I do see a little bell next to the cash register though and I ring it hard a few times.

  A minute later, a woman exits the kitchen. She’s wearing dark lipstick and a pinched expression that clearly betrays her annoyance.

  She stops short when she sees me, her eyes skittering over my tattoos and the look of annoyance on her face turns to one of suspicion.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.

  I produce the picture of Esme. “Did this girl work for you at any point?”

  Her eyes glance at the picture and I can tell immediately.

  Esme was here.

  The woman looks up at me. “No.”

  My face falls. “Excuse me?” I demand.

  “Never seen that girl before in my life.” She starts to turn away.

  I round the corner of the counter and she almost runs right into me. Her eyes go wide with alarm as she registers my height and build.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” she says.

  “Then answer my fucking questions,” I snarl.

  Her eyes skitter past me, and she sighs deeply. “Mira, I don’t know where she is, okay? She disappeared after that… incident with your jefe. She hasn’t come back or contacted me or any of my staff. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  I frown.

  Clearly, she thinks I’m someone I’m not.

  The question is… who?

  “I don’t have a boss,” I tell her. “I’m new in town.”

  She looks at me again. “How do you know Emily?” she asks cautiously.

  “I’m her husband,” I reply.

  “You are?” an incredulous voice bleats from behind me. I turn and find myself staring down at the petite waitress who’d passed me a minute ago with the overloaded tray.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I have five minutes, Ruby?” she asks, the woman standing at my shoulder.

  The woman sighs. “Fine, but be quick about it. We’re understaffed as it is.”

  The waitress gestures for me to follow her, and we move into a corridor with a door to the right that leads to the kitchen. She hurries past the kitchen and further down into the corridor until the noise lessens.

  We’re standing right outside the staff bathrooms when she turns to me.

  “I’m Sara,” she says. “Are you really her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want with her?” she demands.

  Her voice is strong for such a small person. I know she’s nervous of me, but there’s a determination in her eyes that impresses me at the same time.

  “I want to make sure she’s safe.” It’s an honest answer.

  She studies my expression for a long time. “What’s her name?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “You say you’re her husband,” Sara says in a measured tone. “Then you’ll know her real name. It wasn’t Emily.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “It’s Esme.”

  I see the flash of recognition in her eyes. She seems to relax a little.

  “She saved my life,” Sara whispers. “Right here.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “What happened?” I ask.

  “There was a group here for dinner. A bunch of mafia guys with tattoos and bad attitudes. Kinda like you—no offense. One of the men followed me back here and… he was going… he was going to…”

  “I get it,” I cut in. “You don’t have to relive that.” My stomach is curdling in anger already.

  It’s bad enough that they—whoever “they” are—touched this sweet, innocent young woman.

  But if they laid a hand on my wife…

  “Yes,” Sara gulps. “I thought I was alone, but Esme was in the bathroom. She came up behind him and bashed his head in. She was so pregnant. Ready to pop. But she risked herself for me.”

  “What happened after that?” I ask urgently.

  “She told me to go back inside,” Sara admits. “She told me she needed to leave town.”

  “Did she tell you where she was headed?”

  “No,” Sara says, shaking her head. “I’m sorry—she didn’t tell me a thing. And honestly… I don’t think she knew herself.”

  Disappointment sours through me. Another dead end.

  So close and yet so far away.

  How much longer will I be chasing a ghost?

  And then I remember something.

  “She didn’t have a car, did she?”

  Sara frowns and thinks about it. “No, she didn’t,” she remembers. “I guess she took the bus out of town.”

  I nod. “Thank you,” I tell the girl as I move past her towards the exit.

  “Wait!” Sara calls out after me.

  I glance behind me.

  “If you find her, tell her…” She swallows hard, straightens up tall as if to psyche herself up, and then finishes, “Tell her I think of her every day.”

  I nod solemnly. “So do I.”

  Then I head for the bus station.

  29

  Artem

  A stoop-shouldered African American man sits inside the ticket booth.

  “Excuse me.”

  He looks up and his eyebrows rise as he takes me in.

  “You don’t look like the type of person who takes the bus,” he comments.

  “I’m not here for a bus,” I tell him. “I’m here for information.”

  “Route map is right over there,” he says, pointing at the stand of brochures behind me.

  “Not that kind of information. I need to know if you sold a ticket to a woman in the last few weeks. She would have been dark-haired, exotic features, very beautiful. Heavily pregnant.”

  “What’s it to you?”r />
  I grip the edge of the counter hard between my fingers. This man knows something. The trail isn’t dead after all.

  “I need you to help me find her,” I say. “I’ll pay you whatever you need.”

  He scrutinizes me up and down. Then, seeing something in me—fuck if I know what—he sighs.

  “Yeah, I know that girl,” the man says. “Except she wasn’t pregnant when she left town. She’d had her baby.”

  My body goes cold with stillness.

  Esme had given birth.

  In this shithole of a town.

  “Beautiful little fella, too,” the man continues. “Didn’t look much like her, though. But he had her eyes.”

  “He?” I say, feeling my heart swell with an emotion I can’t quite name.

  Is it joy? Pain? Hurt? Loss? Regret?

  Maybe it’s all the above, and my mind simply can’t process it.

  I have a son.

  Fuck.

  I have a son.

  “Phoenix.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “His name. The baby’s,” he tells me. “She named him Phoenix.”

  Phoenix?

  “I’m guessing you’re the father, am I right?” he asks directly.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. I’m still lost in thought, testing the name in my head again and again.

  I have a son.

  His name is Phoenix.

  I have a son.

  His name is Phoenix…

  I wrench my eyes back down to meet the man’s.

  “I’m going to get her,” I announce. Like I’m trying to reassure him. Like I’m trying to reassure myself, too.

  “You should never have let her go in the first place.”

  Well, I guess I deserve that.

  “You sold her a bus ticket, didn’t you?” I ask.

  “I did,” he says. “I can give you the name of the town. Better yet, I can tell you where she’ll be.”

  I pump my fist in pure joy.

  At last, a fucking break.

  I have a son. His name is Phoenix.

  I have a wife. Her name is Esme.

  And I’m coming to save them both.

  The shelter looks like a ravaged shell, a skeleton masquerading as a refuge. I don’t focus on any of the women who pass by me.